


On A Cold Day You Can See Forever

by neontiger55



Category: White Collar
Genre: Car Accidents, Case Fic, Forgery, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Recovery, Rescue, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:44:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neontiger55/pseuds/neontiger55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal is snatched in the chaos of an undercover op gone south. Peter and the team look for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first part of this was originally written for a prompt and posted on Livejournal under the title _At My Heels_ , but the ending has since been completely rewritten so it's essentially a new story, hence the different name. The original story no longer exists. There is some, not overly graphic, violence/psychological torture, so please proceed with caution.

 

 

The laughter in the distance is grating and so is the stench of cigarettes.

If only the floor wasn’t so cold… Neal shifts so he's lying on his stomach. The concrete underneath him is damp and the musty smell reminds him of the couch he slept on as a child. There were always glasses on the coffee table. A lighter. Crumpled dollar bills. Sweet’n Low. A view across the city through colourless bottles and half open blinds. Whatever is pulsating through his body burns with an energy so bright he can almost see it flowing through his veins, into cells and platelets and bone, but he can't move, can't make it dissipate. His skin prickles with sweat and soon he starts to cool and shiver, hard enough that he almost longs for the unbroken heat of his childhood, the endless sunbaked streets and airless motel rooms. At least there were rules back then, certain inevitabilities. 

He spits onto the floor and sparks light in his vision. The green is soft and the orange is crisp. White flares across the edges and it looks like a picture taken in harsh sunlight. Kate always took pictures like that, or on the wrong setting, or with a shake, or a blur, or a thumb…

There’s a hand tapping his face, he realizes, and it startles him.

_“…yet, pal?”_

In the grey-blue light he can see a pair of eyes, hard and unyielding – and a mouth.

Neal says something and the words float across the room in a surprisingly soft, delicate cursive, surreal in its simple beauty; he recognizes it instantly from the notes he used to forge on a Wednesday afternoon. Perhaps this is why he is so good at what he does, Neal thinks suddenly, if all his words look as pleasing and as gentle as this. The man evidently doesn’t agree, and there is another hard slap to his face, then a sharp bite to his arm that makes his eyes water.

He works his jaw tiredly – perhaps the words just need to take on a different shape today – but if he makes any sound, Neal himself doesn’t hear it.

Everything has been replaced by heaviness now, a numb weight that ties his limbs to the floor; it’s disconcerting in its completeness and he wonders if he is actually sinking into the ground itself, a little bit at a time. Maybe he’s dead, or dying, or somewhere in between, though he never imagined it would feel like this; the only death he has ever known has been quick and sudden, an explosion of ash and gunfire. A folded American flag, twelve by eight by four. Golden tassels in the conference room. Peter’s hand on his shoulder. Peter’s hand on his back. Peter’s hand encircling his arm.

Neal wants to call out for him, desperately wants Peter to be here with him in this disquieting place because he is solid and unyielding in a completely different way. Peter wouldn’t let him die like this.

But…there’s blood on his lips and he’s still sinking.

Where is he?

_What do you know?_

There’s the ground, the leaves outside, and there was the cold and the heat; they are basic components of life, but none of them seem remotely familiar.

Neal scrapes his nails along the space beside his body to check the ground is still beneath him, but only finds air. His nails must have sparked on something though, because the lights are back, and Neal watches in rapture as the flecks of colour simultaneously fade and reignite before him, neon, like fireflies dancing in the dark.

 

*

 

The sealed plastic bags were neatly laid out in rows across the table.

A quiet moment passed before Peter reached for one. Inside was a charcoal-grey suit jacket, elegantly tailored, modern, dirty and slightly bloodstained. The next bag contained a broken cell phone, the screen fractured and darkly glinting. Another held a blue, patterned silk tie, and the last, just three shirt buttons, the remnants of a thread, frayed and wispy, caught in the corner of the plastic. “This everything?” Peter eventually asked the man still hovering by the door of the conference room, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded.

The man stepped forward. “Uh, it is, Sir. If you could just sign here and…here.”

Peter scrawled on the two ‘x’ marks without really looking, and the man took his clipboard and left, onto another delivery, another case. Peter looked back at the table and hesitated again. His hands felt like they were shaking but he knew they weren't. 

“Maybe you should take a break, Peter. Let me do this.”

Peter glanced at Diana. “I’m fine.”

“No one will think anything of it.” Diana paused. “I’m sure Neal would tell you the same thing.”

“Yeah, if he were here, which he’s _not_ ,” Peter said, instantly regretting it. He ran a hand over his face and let out a short breath, trying to even out the tension in his body. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean - ”

“Already forgotten,” Diana said. She gave him a brief smile. “Let’s just take it one by one.”

Peter nodded gratefully before returning his focus to the solemn collection of items in front of him. He’d been snapping at everyone recently, but any attempt to divert him from the task at hand, no matter how well meaning or valid, was unwelcome. He didn’t want to rest, or sleep, or sit down to eat a meal; those were ordinary things, they wouldn’t bring them any closer to a resolution. Breaking the seal to the bag containing the ruined suit jacket, Peter carefully pulled it out, but as the cold fabric unfolded he caught the faint, familiar scent of Neal’s aftershave – something clean and expensive - and his resolve crumbled. He gently pushed the jacket back into the plastic and laid it down.

Leaving the evidence in Diana’s capable hands, he walked purposefully through the bullpen, taking the elevator down to the ground floor and out - savouring the relief of the cool autumnal air and the noise of the city. Instinctively, Peter started along the familiar path towards a coffee shop he and Neal frequented, but then stopped, turning to walk in the opposite direction. As he moved through the crowded streets, he laid out the facts in his mind, one by one, replaying the chain of events that had led them all to this intolerable place.

There had been no illusions that the case would be straightforward when the National Security Branch first approached them over two weeks ago. Working alongside Organized Crime, the NSB had got word from an anonymous tip that a large shipment of illegal weapons was making its way from Russia to the US, destined for the streets of New York, Baltimore, Washington, and the Russian gang in charge had been looking for some perfectly forged customs papers to smooth their way. The two Americans tasked with the job had already been arrested in Seattle, their communications with the gang intercepted, and along with an agent from Organized Crime, Neal had been sent into that meeting posing as one of the original forgers.

Peter had misgivings from the start.

The gang had received a basic description of one of the men in an email to facilitate the meeting that had been arranged to barter the terms and conditions of the deal; to everyone’s unease, the agent who best fitted the description was a rookie, Tom Richards. Tom was about Neal’s age, and very green, very eager to please. He had an exemplary record, two impressive degrees, one from Harvard and one from Columbia, but none of the street smarts Neal possessed, none of the verve.

Neal, however, had been surprisingly unperturbed by his new partner. “Everyone’s got to start somewhere,” was what he’d said when Peter asked. It was true, of course, but that hadn’t made things any easier. The gang was known for its volatility, for its willingness to take a life or three, and for the high level of suspicion with which outsiders were treated; a silver tongue and nerves of steel were essential requirements, expensive pieces of paper from the Ivy League were not.

Seven days ago, under a blazing late September sunset, Neal and Richards had met with five gang members beside a warehouse on the outskirts of Jersey City. As far as clandestine gang meetings tend to go, it had started smoothly enough. Neal’s instincts about Richards had been right, and the rookie held his own under Neal’s subtle guidance, but a phone call received by one of the gang members in the middle of negotiations had soured the mood; it had been a tipoff, and within seconds all hell had broken loose. The FBI had reached the warehouse in time to find Richards unconscious and a trail of Neal’s belongings leading to a patch of asphalt marred by violent acceleration marks.

Peter pulled up short at the memory, finding himself at the entrance to Columbus Park. The air was bright and sharp after the earlier rain; blackened clouds moved sluggishly across the pale sky with promises of more, the ground treacherously slick with fallen leaves. It still wan't clear what had happened to cause the panic; there was no way for the Russians to know about the earlier arrests and there was nothing in the communications between the FBI and the gang that would raise suspicion. Most likely it had just been a foot soldier getting edgy, or one desperate to impress. 

Neal’s voice had still been audible over the wire for a time, as they'd raced to the warehouse. They could hear his persuasive bartering, words designed to take the heat away from a then floundering Richards, to fill out the time until backup could arrive, and the note of panic when he realised it wouldn’t be enough; that sound echoed in Peter's ears constantly.

Taking a seat on a bench just inside the perimeter of the park, Peter watched as a couple of small children chased pigeons across the grass, their shiny yellow rain boots so pristine they could have only been bought that day. He smiled at their squeals of delight as they revelled in their newfound power, but the smile felt strange and hollow on his face. It had been seven days with no leads, no contact, no ransom or demand, with known gang members being followed without success and the harbour police trawling the waterways and riverbanks watchfully. 

Peter avoided thinking about why the gang decided to take Neal instead of killing him on the spot. He tried not to think about what they wanted from him, or to imagine how much Neal would be willing to take before he gave.

 

*

 

The cold still takes his breath away, like every time before; there is simply no way to acclimatise to this.

Despite the shock of the freezing water, his mind remains foggy, clouded by the remnants of whatever has been coursing through his veins. He can feel bruises on his body now, but has no idea how they got there. Time is fractured and hazy, this moment bearing no demarcation to whatever came before. He has been asleep, or something like it, for what can only be described as an endless amount of space, not time, and that ambiguity is as unsettling as it is frustrating. But now there is a knee in his back, hands crowding his body and water in his nose, and as he counts the seconds, all he wishes for is that vast, endless black space. His chest is starting to ache viciously, lungs bursting for air, and even though he knows it's pointless, Neal tries instinctively to pull away, to wrestle his hands from their human binds and claw his way from this nightmare.

After another long, excruciating moment, the hand holding the back of his head grabs his hair roughly and Neal drags in a shuddering, gasping breath the second he is pulled from the tub of water. He coughs until he retches, trembling so violently that he barely notices the man, Dominick, has moved towards him until he is forced up against the wall.

“Refreshing, no?” Dominik poses the question conversationally, as though he has just offered Neal a gin spritzer.

Neal has no air in his lungs to reply.

“What do you know, huh? How much does the FBI know about us?” His accent is a strange hybrid, a little European, a little East Coast, and Neal still can’t quite place it. “ _Sam_ ,” Dominik drags out each letter in his lilting, smoke roughened voice, elongating the word. “We both know your federal buddies aren’t coming for you. All you have to do is give me the name of the guy who snitched and you can go.”

Neal laughs breathlessly despite himself. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Neal shakes his head, gritting his teeth to stop them from chattering. “I'm just a forger." He coughs and spits onto the floor. "I thought we were going to do business. I can still make the papers you want, we can figure this out - ”

“You’re awfully tricky for a forger," Dominik says, almost as if Neal hadn't spoken. "Most forgers don’t learn how to pick locks or know how to override an electronic keypad, but an FBI agent might.”

Neal's breath catches in his throat. He'd made it out, before, heart pounding in his ears, hands trembling and much too slow. That brief, devastating glimpse of the outside world, the labyrinth of trees that stretched out into the distance and the swirl of birds overhead still persists in Neal's mind, the shock never quite fading. 

Dominik takes Neal’s hand in his, wrapping his fingers over the tips of Neal’s own; to an outside observer, it might look like a crude gesture of affection. “Are these the hands of a forger, a locksmith, or a federal agent?” He starts to squeeze, pushing Neal’s hand at awkward angle. “Just give me a name.” Dominik tightens his grip in response to Neal’s silence. “I won’t ask again.”

Neal sets his jaw and says nothing. They've been at this a while, but he’s dealt with enough people like this in his life to know that there isn't anything he can do or say that will make this go any differently.

Dominik smiles humourlessly. “Okay.” He wrenches Neal’s wrist back; there’s an audible crack as a wave of electricity pulses through his fingers and up his arm. The pain explodes half a second later and he can’t breathe, choking on every inhalation until he wants to be sick. He sobs, once, twice, unable to stop himself, the shock of the pain completely and utterly overwhelming. The world narrows down to a pinpoint, stripped of colour and shape as he teeters on the edge of consciousness, the sound of his own harsh breathing filling his ears until it's like he's drowning in white noise.  " - what happens, Sam, when you continue to lie." Dominick is shouting somewhere in the distance. "This is what you make me do - "

Through the dark edges crowding his vision, Neal catches sight of something metallic, glinting. He's still too dazed to react as Dominik's men move forward. His good arm is bent in front of him awkwardly and there's the familiar sting of a needle being threaded through his skin. He starts to fight then, kicking out blindly, pointlessly, trying to twist out of their grasp. But as he struggles, he feels something bump against his knuckles: a cell phone.

 _These two fingers, like tweezers_.

Without thinking, Neal pulls the phone from the man’s shirt pocket and slides it underneath himself, the crush of the two bodies on top of him disguising the movement. There's a sudden explosion across his jaw as one of the men's fists connects squarely, stunning him with the rattling force. Blood wells in his mouth as he feels the needle plunge into his arm and the cold flush of the drug in his veins. 

“A little sodium penthothal.” Dominik’s voice floats across the room, suddenly calm and unaffected once again. “Does wonders for people who aren’t very _chatty_.”

Neal’s heart starts to slow, the beat of it in his ears strangely distorted like a record playing at the wrong speed. A moment later he's released and allowed to drop back against the wall, searching for purchase as the lines of the room start to waver. The drug sinks into his body quickly, but the pain and adrenaline are still enough to keep him tethered to this moment, panicked with the certainty that he gets out now or never. 

Dominic smiles benignly. “Talk to you in a little while, Sammy.”

As soon as the door is slammed shut, Neal forces himself to move. The phone is unlocked, a cheap burner.  He types in the number of Peter’s cell, not daring to make a call, no matter how desperately he wants to hear Peter’s voice, wants to be spoken to with kindness, to be told it's all going to be okay even if it isn't. His thumbs are clumsy, his vision swimming, but eventually he sends the message and skims the phone across the room towards the door, chipping it on the wall so that it looks like it had been dropped in the earlier scuffle. He collapses then, finally falling into the soft nothingness. It's disquieting; his body feels weightless, doped, but his mind is growing increasingly unsettled, like there are a thousand words bubbling up to the surface, begging for release.

Time slips, and suddenly Dominik is there again with his laconic smile. “Feeling better, pal?” He crouches down next to Neal, stinking of cigarette smoke and fresh air. “C’mon, tell me who snitched. Give me a name.”

As the sensation intensifies, Neal tries to focus in on one thing, a word, a number, a phrase, something he can repeat in his mind or scream out loud if he has to.

“Just a name.”

 _Red sky at night, shepherd's delight; red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning_  
_You can't run with the hare and hunt with the hounds_  
_A swarm in May is worth a load of hay; a swarm in June is worth a silver spoon; but a swarm in July is not worth a fly_

“Just a name.”

  
*

  
It was like a starting pistol had been fired and suddenly everything was in motion. The surface water from the rain soaked streets crashed discordantly against the wheel arches of the car as they sped along the highway, sending plumes of vapour up into the air. The roar of the engine and the water were the only sounds as they travelled in tense silence, focusing, waiting, preparing. The text had come in just over an hour ago and the signal being triangulated from the cell phone died thirty minutes after that. An unknown Jersey number and two heart stopping letters: _NC_.

They reached the dilapidated industrial building on the outskirts of Plainfield where the signal had last pinged just as the sun was starting to drop into a bruised horizon. Peter’s stomach lurched as they rounded the corner to find two local squad cars parked in the driveway and four officers standing idly by. The red and blue emergency lights flashed silently, illuminating the scarred surface of the building in the pale light. Peter threw his door open before Diana could pull to a complete stop and hit the ground running.

He flashed his badge as he neared the officers. “Have you been inside?”

One of the officers nodded. “Yes, Sir. There’s nobody here, but there are signs of recent activity. There's a modern keypad entry system on the doors and an alarm, but nothing was armed." He gestured towards the road, unhurried. "We got squad cars out patrolling the area in case - ”

Peter ignored him and continued forward, sliding open the heavy metal door and stepping inside.

The building was unlit and completely still. A single corridor led off from a central room where broken furniture and trash littered the concrete floor. Beer cans. Yellowed take-out cartons. Newspapers stained and curling at the edges. Broken glass. They advanced down the corridor, past a make-shift washroom on the right, a tub filled with murky water, checking the building methodically. A heavy atmosphere lingered in the building despite its apparent desertion, like a ghost ship drifting aimlessly in the currents, calm after a storm of violence.

Finally, they reached the last room at the south end. There was a deadbolt on the door, but it wasn't locked. Swinging open with a whine, it revealed a dank and windowless room not much bigger than an elevator car. The room appeared empty at first glance, but as they swept their flashlights across the floor Peter spotted a shirt lying discarded in the corner. He and Diana shared a look as they moved further into the room. Retrieving a pen from his jacket, Peter flicked the material over so that the label was visible: designer, the right size. “It’s Neal’s,” he said, a sharp pang of fear striking through his body; there was blood on the collar. “This is the place. He was here.”

Diana nodded. “Something spooked them.”

There were footsteps in the corridor and Jones appeared in the doorway. “Jersey PD just got a report of a suspicious vehicle driving erratically on a back road three miles north of here.”

  
*

  
Light had faded dramatically by the time they reached the empty stretch of road where the vehicle was last sighted. Rain had once again started to fall, great slanted sheets that splintered into the earth. Dense woodland crowded in on both sides, perpetuating the darkness. A radio borrowed from the Jersey police buzzed and chattered quietly in the background as the patrol cars periodically checked in with each other. Peter stared out ahead, trying and failing to see anything beyond the rusty stains on Neal's shirt - wide streaks down the back, and more on the cuffs and hem. The fabric had been stiff with it.

They drove for a further two miles. Then, as they approached a downward curve in the highway their headlights started picking up small bits of debris on the road. Diana slowed the car, and as they exited the corner they were confronted with the wreckage of a sedan lying in the middle of the road. It had clearly pinballed across the two lanes, if the trail of destruction was anything to go by, impacting the crash barrier on one side before bouncing off the other and spinning around to half face the wrong direction. The front end was concertinaed in, the hood popped open, and the glass from the windows had shattered entirely, leaving a glimmering sheen over the wet asphalt. Diana hit the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road with a screech of tires that suddenly made Peter realise how quiet it was; there were no raised voices, no cries for help. The acrid stench of burnt rubber and petroleum hung in the air.

A heavy weight settled in Peter's chest, the desire to find Neal competing fiercely with the hope that this wasn't the right car, or that he'd somehow escaped beforehand and karma really was a bitch.

They advanced slowly, guns drawn. The car doors were all open, apart from the driver’s side, which was clearly crumpled beyond use, but it was obvious that the car was empty. They moved further around to the where the back end was resting over the white line of the hard shoulder and Peter’s heart stuttered as he registered the sight before him; sitting against the crash barrier several metres away, a gun in his hand, was Neal.

It took a split second for Peter to move from where he was rooted to the spot. “Neal,” he shouted hoarsely, then, louder, _“Neal.”_

Neal’s grip on the gun tightened as he looked up. Peter stopped dead as he caught Neal’s expression, waving for Jones and Diana to stay behind him. Even from this distance Peter could see his breathing was quick and shaky, his eyes dark and unfocused. There was blood in his hair, streaming down the side of his face, and more, dried stains on his chin and the front of his t-shirt. Peter holstered his weapon and approached slowly but steadily. The gun was resting on Neal’s knee, not aimed at anyone, but his finger remained curled loosely around the trigger.

“Neal? Neal, it’s Peter, okay?”

Neal looked up warily as Peter crouched down in front of him.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s me, it’s me.” Peter smiled and moved closer, his shoes crunching on the broken glass, and gestured to the gun. “I’m just going to take this for you, okay?”

Neal shook his head, but didn’t otherwise move. “I need it. They might come back.” His voice was totally shot.

“They’re not coming back, I promise. You’re safe now.” He kept his tone soft and even, cautious of letting his own fear bleed through. “Anyway, I’ve got my gun, so you don’t need yours anymore, all right?”

A tense moment passed as Neal’s eyes flittered over Peter’s holster, before he gave a jerky nod. Peter reached out and gently pulled the gun from Neal’s unresisting fingers, passing it to Diana who had moved to crouch beside him. He could hear Jones in the background calling for backup and an ambulance. Peter shrugged out of his coat and draped it around Neal’s shoulders, mindful of his injuries; there was clearly something wrong with his right arm, the way it was cradled against his body, but the thin t-shirt he was wearing was soaked through and there was nothing on his feet to protect against the cold besides a pair of black socks.

“Peter?” Neal’s quiet, pensive voice pulled his focus. “I don’t understand.” 

Peter took a stack of tissues from his pocket and pressed them against the freely bleeding cut on Neal’s forehead. He could now see that Neal’s pupils were far too dilated, even in the dim light, and his anxiety escalated. “That’s okay, don’t worry, don't worry. Do you remember what happened? Did you hit your head?”

Neal looked him in the eye then, for the first time since they had been there together on that sodden road, and the fear Peter could see made his throat constrict. Neal shook his head slowly. “It was like this when I got here. I’m - I'm not - I don't - ” It seemed as though the words were being shaken out by the force of Neal's shivering, a painful, uncontrollable litany. 

Placing a hand on the back of Neal’s head, Peter carefully folded him into his arms and Neal sunk into Peter's hold as if he were the only tangible thing left in the world, his body a freezing, tremulous weight. In the distance, the sound of the other units arriving could be heard, a strange, wailing chorus of sirens, steadily drowning out Neal’s breathing and the patter of the rain.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the warnings at the beginning of chapter one. This isn't set during any particular season, but there are definitely spoilers here and there from S1 - S5.

 

 

Neal woke slowly, his mind cool and quiet. Sounds drifted in: the hum of an air conditioning vent, elevator doors opening and closing, the intermittent ringing of a phone somewhere far away. But it all felt disconnected, removed from his own reality like sound effects playing in a movie. His body was warm but ached fiercely. When he opened his eyes he found them sore and sticky, and he could taste blood in his mouth. There was a square patch of morning sky in his line of sight, a little grey and dirty, but streaked with an orange so florid that a clear day was sure to follow. A wave of disorientation flooded over Neal as he looked at it, trying to understand why he was staring at the sky instead of cracks in a concrete wall. He lifted a hand to wipe his face but found his arm restricted by something, tied tight like someone didn't want him to get away. A blunt note of panic sparked in him and he ran his fingers across the material, digging his nails in, trying to pull himself free. 

“Hey, hey, Neal?” Peter’s fingers suddenly closed over his, gently moving Neal’s arm back down to his chest. “You're okay. Leave it.”

Neal blinked and nodded as he remembered. Peter's face was startlingly close to his own, his brow deeply furrowed with concern, and all Neal could do was watch him as he resealed the blood pressure cuff around his left arm and ran a thumb over the tape securing a cannula in the back of his hand, feeling physically sick with relief. He started to shiver, as if his body was trying to shake his mind into some kind of clarity. Peter unfolded a blanket from the end of the bed and laid it over him in one swift motion, carefully tugging it up to his chest, and it was then that Neal realised his right arm was encased in plaster from his hand to just below his elbow, immobilised and secure against a body that didn't seem completely like his own. IV lines ran into the crook of his arm, labelled and tagged in indecipherable scrawl, and, aside from the sheets and heavy blankets he was entirely unclothed. Neal took a sudden, shuddering breath, momentarily overwhelmed. Peter squeezed his hand and Neal looked across to find his eyes soft and filled with a kind of compassion that was so profoundly shocking after all those days. "It's alright, Neal, you're okay, you're okay."

Neal nodded and pulled his hand free, looking away to find his balance. There was a hospital blanket discarded on a chair in the corner of the room, a familiar beige trench coat hung over the back. “You slept here?” was all Neal could think to say, his voice cracking, barely above a whisper.

Peter smiled softly, perhaps surprised. “Thought it would be good for my posture." Reaching across to the bedside table, he picked up a cup of water and passed it to Neal. “Here. The sound of your voice is giving me sympathy pains.” He hovered until Neal had drunk enough, two fingers under the bottom of the cup taking its weight, before placing it back on the table. “How’re you feeling?”

“You really want an answer to that?” 

“If you’ve got one,” Peter said.

Neal didn’t, really. “Am I getting out of here today?” he asked, a second before he realised that he actually had no idea where this nondescript hospital room was or how long he'd been there. There was a hazy, drugged undercurrent to his thoughts, keeping everything dampened down and slightly out of reach.

“I'm not sure. You’ve got a concussion and bruised kidneys. There was a little bit of internal bleeding from the bruising so they were keeping an eye on that, but your doctor was happy with your last scans." Peter gave him a reassuring smile.  "Your arm is fractured, but it's stable, no surgery, and you've got a couple of cracked ribs." He paused. "You've been pretty out of it from the stuff you were on – ” The muscle in Peter's jaw tensed but his voice remained quiet. There were tight lines of exhaustion around his mouth and eyes, Neal could now see, belying the mildness of his expression, and for a second he seemed like someone else, a strange new version of the original.

“We’re not back in New York,” Neal said, feeling unsure of himself as Peter faltered.

“St. Michael's, Newark.”

“And here I thought things couldn’t get worse,” Neal joked lamely, but Peter didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m gonna go let someone know you’re awake, okay?” he said.

Neal nodded and waited until Peter had gone before pushing himself up in the bed and pulling down the sheets, far enough to see the diagonal imprint of a seatbelt across his chest, angry and still blossoming. He could feel the tug of stitches on his face now, and his cheek, when he touched it, was hot and tender. He had a dull impression of being in the ER before, of feeling completely out of control. Panicking when the doctors had tried to insert a catheter into his hand, his bladder, to examine his body or remove his clothes. Peter’s pained expression as Neal quietly pleaded with him to take him back to his own apartment where he was sure he could fix everything else himself if he could just please have that. It had seemed completely reasonable at the time. Eventually they’d given him gas and air and then he hadn’t really cared about anything much at all.

Neal’s gaze drifted back to the window. Rush hour was starting and people dressed for work and school hurried down the sidewalks, hair and scarves being whipped upwards by a strong wind. It occurred to him that he had no idea what day of the week it was, but he savoured the sight of it all: cars, bikes, trashcans, briefcases, strollers, coffee cups, litter. Every little detail that stood to prove he was somewhere else, free, _safe_.

“A nurse is going to come by in a minute,” Peter said when he returned, sinking back into the chair and touching Neal’s leg lightly to get his attention. “It’s still too early for doctor’s rounds.”

The nurse was close on Peter’s heels and soon Neal was gratefully untangled from the wires and tubes. He was dressed in a gown and underwear and left to use the bathroom, brush his teeth, and inspect his black eye in private. Some of the older abrasions had already begun to heal, he realised with a start, bruises yellowing. His hair was sticking up at all angles, but had clearly been washed by someone, along with the rest of his body. He looked better than he felt, but there was something strange about his reflection, like it wasn't really himself he was looking at. 

When Neal returned to the room Peter was talking on his cell, but on seeing Neal he gestured to the hallway and ducked out. Neal could hear snatches of the conversation though, enough to know it was someone at the bureau and that they didn’t have good news.

“What happened?” Neal asked when Peter came back. “I - did you find them, the guys who had me?”

Peter sat down and leant forward, resting his hands on his knees, the way he did when he had to tell someone their pension was gone for good or their art was unrecoverable. “We got one of them. He was found with severe injuries about a mile out from the crash site. But we’re still searching for the others.”

“Who?”

“Neal – ”

“Please. Just tell me.”

“Alexei Lebedev, Nikolai Popov, and a guy known as ‘Dominik’. We don’t have a last name on him yet.”

There was a buzzing in Neal’s ears. “Lebedev and Popov are Dominik’s muscle. Dominik is pretty high up the food chain as far as I could tell. He’s – he was – ” Neal swallowed, unwilling to say the words. _He was my torturer._

“Okay, that’s good.” Peter smiled encouragingly in the silence Neal left. “That’s good. We’ll get them, you know that. You don’t need to worry about anything right now.”

Neal smiled back, hoping it didn't look as ugly as it felt.

 

*

 

A day later, Neal was installed in Peter and Elizabeth’s guest room.  It was the first time he’d seen the upstairs of the house beyond the landing. The room, right at the front of the building overlooking the street, was light and airy, and decorated tastefully despite being filled with all the bits and pieces that didn’t quite fit anywhere else: a snow globe from Vermont; a treadmill; an unframed reproduction of Klimt’s _The Kiss_ leant against the dresser; a Japanese puzzle box resting on a stack of Elizabeth’s old college textbooks. He bled over two sets of embroidered sheets that first night but no one seemed to mind.

Mozzie turned up on the second day and, much to Peter’s consternation, established residence on the other side of the bed with a bottle of Domaine de Trévallon (kept at the right temperature under the covers) and a Steinbeck novel. A warm, constant presence at Neal’s side, he was quiet but steadfast; he knew Neal would never ask him to stay so he never offered to leave. June came by with some more of Neal’s things and beat Mozzie at three games of poker in a row without batting an eye. She dropped a kiss on Neal’s cheek before she went, holding his hand a little too long for it to be a casual, thoughtless touch.

Neal slept on and off, lightly buzzed from the painkillers and lulled by the rhythm of the house: Elizabeth leaving for work, Satchmo’s nails on the hardwood, the click of the pipes and the squeak of the shower. But underlying it all was a constant tremor of unease, a scratching in the back of his mind telling him to be alert to something that was just out of sight. The days merged seamlessly with the nights and restlessness gradually crept in. Disquieting dreams pulled him from sleep feeling sick and overheated, unsure of how much time had passed or where he was. It was the same feeling he'd had during the last year on the run, waking in blackened hotel rooms trying to decipher from murky outlines and starchy linens whether he was in Stockholm or Vienna or Copenhagen. Everything felt suspended, thrown upwards into the sky only to never fall back again, trapped in a strange kind of inertia. It didn't help that Peter was refusing to talk about how the case was progressing. He changed the subject when Neal asked if they'd made any arrests or whether the shipment of guns had been moved. If they had any kind of sting planned, any new leads. Every answer Neal tried to get was deflected with questions about his arm, or the pain, or did he need a hand to the bathroom? Even Mozzie was being circumspect. “I’m sure it’s nothing, mon frère. You'd be moody and unhelpful, too, if you had to deal with red tape and bureaucracy all day,” he said distractedly, fishing out a waiter’s friend from somewhere under Neal’s pillow.

Neal kicked him with his newly anklet-ed leg. “I _do_ deal with red tape and bureaucracy all day, Moz.”

It was late on a Friday evening when Neal finally found himself alone and with the energy to pull on a sweater and walk downstairs. It was slow going, his muscles weak and shaky from being in bed so long, but it felt wonderful to be on his own two feet again, to be a little more in control of himself.

Peter was in the kitchen frowning over a casserole recipe, half chopped onions and carrots strewn on a wooden board in front of him, a spoon loaded with herbs hovering over a pan uncertainly; Elizabeth was out managing an event, but Neal could see her handwritten instructions on the paper. Finally tipping the herbs into the pan, Peter looked back at the instructions again, brows knitting together more tightly.

“You know, there’s always take-out,” Neal said, leaning against the island counter.

Peter turned, surprised at Neal’s voice, and broke into a smile at the sight of him. “So, it lives.”

  

*

 

Rain had started to pour, drumming against the windows and pinging musically in one of Satchmo’s water bowls that had been left out on the porch. Peter retrieved two wet paper bags of take-out from the driver when she arrived, tipping generously, Neal assumed by the uplift in her voice, and set the food out on the coffee table. A muted baseball game played on the TV screen, crowds and players celebrating soundlessly in between car and mortgage commercials.

Peter spooned a little of everything onto a plate and handed it to Neal, waiting for him to settle it on his lap before passing him a pair of chopsticks. His appetite was non-existent these days, or rather, he just didn’t think about eating until someone asked him what he wanted for lunch, or Elizabeth brought him a plate of eggs before she ducked out in the morning. And even then his interest was mostly feigned, the painkillers and anxiety suppressing any hunger he might otherwise have had. He took a small bite of a chicken gyoza, chewing and swallowing quickly before he could taste it. The food he had been given while being held was minimal – a stale roll or the leftovers of something indiscernible, once, maybe twice a day if he was lucky. But occasionally they would bring him something delicious, a large plate of Indian food, or Italian, steaming hot. Then they would set it down in front of him and spit in it, walking away laughing when he ate it anyway. A flush of embarrassment rose in his face and he slid the plate back onto the coffee table. He’d never been in that position before, where he couldn’t steal or lie or cheat it better, but he’d learned early what it took to survive and that sometimes it meant losing a little dignity.

“You holding up over there?” Peter said, eying him critically.

“Yeah, yeah.” Neal flashed a brief smile. “Just not as hungry as I thought.” He ran his teeth over his bottom lip. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“When I give my full statement – ” Neal paused, choosing his phrasing carefully. “Will it be to you, or someone else in the bureau?”

Peter shifted forward in his chair and Neal could see he was suppressing a reaction. “Not if you don’t want it to be. It can be someone you don’t know, someone in Organized Crime maybe, if that’s what you'd prefer?”

They had taken photographs for evidence, Neal was pretty sure, at the hospital when the doctors had finally drugged him into a dazed calm. Peter had seen his injuries, had been with him while he was examined and treated, and after, but somehow the thought of telling him explicit the details of what happened seemed more intimate. People’s imaginations always softened the blow, ignored the realities of things that weren't spelled out to them, and Neal wanted it to stay that way, for the image of his indignities to never completely sharpen to those around him. 

“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” Peter was saying. “There’s plenty of time.”

Neal nodded and stared at the TV blankly.

“I’m sorry we took so long to find you.” Peter’s quiet words came so abruptly that it took Neal a second to catch up. “That we didn’t reach you before – You should never have been put in that position. You should never have gone through any of that.” Peter shook his head, looking away, and suddenly Neal understood. The light fell in heavy shadows across Peter’s downturned face but the guilt was plain to see.

“You don’t have anything to apologise for,” Neal said, voice firm despite his surprise. “You found me when I needed to be found.” What else was there to it?

He suddenly thought about a time, several years after he ran away from St. Louis, when he found himself with access to a police database while in the process of doing a favour for Alex. Curiosity had eventually got the better of him and he’d searched for any missing persons records for Danny Brooks. He found only one, filed by his middle school principal (who always called him ‘Maestro’ for a reason Neal could never decipher) almost two weeks after he’d left town. His mom had been questioned, but all that came through in the words of the report was an apathetic shrug of the shoulders, a blank, defiant stare. Neal wanted to tell Peter that it was enough that he’d looked, that he’d cared, that the details didn’t really matter. But it wasn’t something he could possibly articulate, not to Peter.  “So, are you ever going to tell me what’s going on with the investigation?” Neal asked instead, when the moment had stretched on too long.

Peter opened his mouth, a lie or a half-truth forming on his lips, but Neal set his shoulders, his expression resolute. “We’ve hit a bit of a roadblock,” Peter eventually said. He uncapped a bottle of beer, snagging the lid from where it had fallen on the floor before Satchmo could get at it. Droplets of condensation swayed downwards and dripped steadily onto his knee. “Your escape pissed off a lot of people involved in the weapons smuggling and the guys tasked with holding you... Lebedev’s body turned up in the East River forty-eight hours ago." Peter paused, perhaps waiting for Neal to react in some way, but Neal didn't feel a thing. "The other two men are still missing, but we want them, the Russians want them….”

“They’re on the run,” Neal said, a shiver of anticipation running down his spine. The terms of the game were shifting in their favour.

“Yeah, and they’re running on the fly. They’re on every watch list, every notice in every police station and border crossing – ”

“They’ve gone to ground.”

“If we can grab Dominik, nail the piece of shit for what he did to you, we can maybe get him to roll on the Russians for protection. I know it’s not ideal but – ”

“You need to draw him out,” Neal said, trying not to think about Dominik being shown any kind of mercy. He leant forward, wincing at the pull of his damaged muscles, but the fire was lit now and his mind was racing. “He'll be looking for clean documents to get him out of the country undetected. You need a perfectly forged passport so you can catch him or track him, but you can’t trust any of the bureau’s street contacts in case it gets back to Dominik or the Russians.”

“Neal – ”

“Put word out that there's a new forger in town - talented, discrete - and send in an agent from the bureau. I’ll take care of the documents.”

Peter was incredulous. “You’ve got a broken arm.”

“ _One_ broken arm. The other works fine.”

“ _Neal_.” Peter caught his gaze and held it. “Aside from the _minor_ fact that you’re recovering from serious injuries and have been through hell, if the forgery isn’t perfect, or you don’t get it finished in time - ” he trailed off, leaving the words hanging in the air -  _You could get someone killed._ “I’m trying to protect you.”

But protection was the last thing Neal wanted.

 

*

 

The brown paper envelope sat innocuously on the kitchen table, quietly intruding into the warm domesticity of Peter’s home. After a nervous few days, Dominik had taken the bait and a little over an hour ago Diana had retrieved the parcel of information from behind a trashcan on the western edge of Battery Park, as he instructed. The materials Neal needed, dropped over by Mozzie earlier in the day, lay ready in a little cardboard box.

His hands were shaking.

In all his distraction Neal had neglected to consider that somewhere in the process of forging a passport there would come a time when he’d have to look at Dominik’s picture. Would have to touch it. Study it. 

_We’re pals, aren’t we? You don’t want to disappoint me now, do you?”_

For some reason that lilting, languid voice was the thing Neal remembered most clearly. Dominik's face was still a hazy collection of features: a hooked nose, broad shoulders, a little triangle chipped from his front tooth that you had to be really close to see. But that voice was what lurched out of the silence and darkness of the night, bringing him to awareness with a gasping jolt.

Neal drew up a chair and sat down, ignoring the way Peter was hovering in the kitchen like he might fly apart at any second. Neal blew out a steadying breath at the same time as he peeled open the envelope, letting a slip of paper and photograph flutter onto the table. The information on the crumpled sheet was scant, generic – desired name, date of birth, nationality – and written in wide, blocky cursive, as though the English alphabet was too insubstantial to convey anything properly after years of Cyrillic. They had spoken Russian around him sometimes, but it was mostly mundane things – sports, food, television. The state of traffic on The Turnpike in between shoving his head underwater. Spitting blood onto the floor while they wondered what the hell was wrong with Michael Vick. They were schoolyard bullies who’d become overgrown, but they could have killed him all the same. Still, muscle was only temporary. Intelligence and creativity, as the greatest art in the world could attest, were eternal.

Progress was slow, and Neal quickly realised he’d underestimated how hard it would be to forge the document one-handed. Even holding the papers steady while he made a cut proved difficult, any movement of the fingers on his right hand sending shooting pains down his arm. It took three attempts to get the laminating just right and hours to render the lettering and insignias on each individual page, to shape, replicate and age a smattering of customs stamps perfectly. Mozzie and Peter both tried to help - hold this steady, work on that - but Neal’s temper was too frayed to accept. Mozzie backed off, but Peter stayed nearby, pestering Neal to take it steady, even though that was all he was actually capable of doing. Mercifully, Elizabeth dragged Peter away to the living room when she got home, plying him with leftover tiramisu from her event. 

A little after two in the morning and he was done, arm aching, vision wavering at the edges. His lower back burned so fiercely that he felt he might be sick, but the forgery was perhaps one of the best he’d ever produced. “Flawless,” Mozzie said, running his finger over the worn leather cover before he left, not even bothering the keep the surprise out of his voice.

Neal’s world tipped, and Peter was pulling him to his feet and up the stairs. Elizabeth appeared with painkillers and a heat pad and Neal was pretty sure it was the best sight he’d ever seen.

“I think I might have overdone it,” he said, as she slipped the heat pad under his back and pulled the covers over him.

“I think you might be right.”  She smiled, and it must have been Vicodin she’d given him because the ceiling was washing around behind her pleasantly, like watching waves rolling over the ocean floor from above. He scrunched his nose and she laughed at him, brushing her fingers across his forehead, as though checking for a fever. "Rest," she said, before moving out of his line of sight.

Peter was there, sat on the edge of the bed. “You did great, Neal. You did a fantastic job,” he said, but he didn’t look very happy. He was wearing that expression he always wore when Neal divulged too much information about a past crime, or when a stakeout didn’t go quite as smoothly as planned, kind of like a constipated frog, if frogs could look constipated. He wanted to laugh but his face felt too heavy.

“You look - ” Neal said, and then he was gone.

 

*

 

The exchange was arranged for one in the afternoon beside the entrance to Central Park from Columbus Circle. It would be heaving with tourists, hawkers, and office workers heading out to enjoy their lunch breaks on an unseasonably warm fall day. It was an obvious location for Dominik to have chosen; there were so many places, so many crowds into which he could disappear.

Peter had gone into the office early that morning with promises to keep Neal updated on every step so long as he stayed put at the house. And, reluctantly, Neal had agreed, the thought of being in amongst the noise and heat of city, surrounded by people jostling for space tempering the fervour of his protestations just enough. He hadn't left Peter and Elizabeth's house in the week and a half since he'd arrived and though he would never admit it out load, he was nervous to break from its safety, especially while he was still healing, unable to really protect himself if he had to.

But it was only just past eleven and he was vibrating with apprehension. The living room was still and quiet, and Neal paced restlessly as he tried to work up the courage to go into the bureau. He never had been very good at sitting on the sidelines, but more than that, he felt like a coward not even being there while Diana got wired up and walked down West 59th with his forgery in her pocket. He needed to see this through, to witness the look on Dominik's face with his own eyes and hear the snick of handcuffs as they closed around his wrists. It was the only way it was ever going to seem real, finished. And besides, he always did like to have the last word. 

“Screw it,” Neal said to himself, causing Satchmo to raise a curious ear from where he was sprawled in a patch of sunlight.

Upstairs, Neal sifted through the belongings June had brought him and to his immense gratitude, hanging in the closet behind all the t-shirts and jeans was a clothes bag containing one of his finest suits – a shirt, tie, cufflinks, collar pins. He smiled. There were some things about him that June understood better than anyone. His shirtsleeve bunched up at his elbow above his cast, but the blue suit jacked skimmed neatly over it all. The tie and cufflinks took time but eventually fell into place. Slipping on a pair of sunglasses to cover his black eye, Neal stepped out of the house and into a waiting cab.

 

*

 

The bullpen was deserted by the time Neal made it to the twenty-first floor and it was immediately obvious that everyone had already gathered for a briefing in the conference room; Peter’s voice was just audible from where Neal stood by his desk, and if the words weren’t clear, the authoritative tone was. Neal hesitated, suddenly feeling self-conscious at the thought of facing the entire division all at once. His suit went a long way to presenting an air of composure, but the barely closed cuts and abrasions still visible on his face and neck made the ugliness of his abuse plain to see. His movements were still stiff and careful and it took all his concentration to walk smoothly. Showing up like this felt like tipping his hand.

Neal wavered a moment longer before curiosity propelled him forward, through the bullpen and up the stairs. 

The room was overcrowded; extra chairs had been crammed in around the table and agents from other divisions clearly drafted in especially for the take down were stood against the walls, or perched on the windowsill. Everyone's eyes immediately fell upon Neal as he reached the open doorway. He smiled, tilting his chin upwards and trying his best to look sure of himself in the face of their stunned appraisal. Peter’s speech trailed off as he followed the gaze of the room to where Neal was standing, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.

“You look like shit, Caffrey,” Diana said after a moment, finally breaking the spell. There was a chorus of hellos and welcome backs and a lot of gentle backslapping. Jones gave up his chair and Neal sat gratefully, fixing Peter with an expression that he hoped was at once contrite and defiant. After a minor stand off, Peter rolled his eyes and continued with the briefing. Entries and exits. Get-out phrases. The stakeout positions of Organized Crime and the NSB. 

“This guy is unpredictable and volatile. We believe he carries a Sig Sauer P220 fitted with a silencer and it’s likely that he wouldn’t think twice about using it, even in a public place,” Peter said, while Diana just looked unimpressed by the choice of gun. “Take no chances or risks. If you think something is wrong, say something.”

Once the briefing was over, Peter waited for the other agents to file out and gestured to Neal sternly.

Neal held his hands up. “Look, Peter, I know you said – ”

But Peter ignored him and reached for Neal's tie, adjusting the knot slightly and wriggling it until he was satisfied it was straight. “You stay in the car with me,” he said. “You don’t move unless I say so, got it?”

Neal smiled. “Got it.”

 

*

 

They watched with increasing unease as the numbers on the dashboard clock steadily turned. It had long since gone 01:00 pm and there was still no sign of Dominik.  _  
_

From their position across the street Neal could see Diana where she was stood beside a newsstand, crowds of pedestrians flowing around her. The sun was bright, the sidewalks and buildings washed out and overexposed in the glare. There was chaos in the city, roads having been blocked off further downtown for some kind of conference at the UN. Cab drivers sat on their horns and swerved in and out of lanes impatiently. A delivery truck stalled at a light and jammed the intersection.  Neal wiped his hands on his knees, trying to keep calm and still amongst it all. He could feel Peter watching him out of the corner of his eye, critical, careful. But just as Peter looked like he was about to say something, Diana moved back towards the shadows of the trees and a voice floated out over the wire.

_“You got what I asked for?”_

Neal felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. The walls and surfaces of the car suddenly seemed far too close, the air too thick. His breathing sounded impossibly loud, a harsh, wheeze in his throat. He pitched forward in his seat, his fingers starting to tingle, vision wavering. Neal tried to slow his breathing and focus on what was happening, digging his nails into the fabric of the seat with the effort. Distantly, he was aware of Peter's hand sweeping down his back, a short, unobtrusive gesture. 

 _“_ _You got my money?”_  

_"The documents first, if you would be so kind.”_

Diana’s mic flared with static as she reached into her jacket pocket and handed the passport over.

Movement, then Dominik gave a low whistle, impressed. There was a rustling of paper. _“It’s all there. I trust you don’t need to count it,”_ he said, sounding amused by something.

 _“I guess I’ll know how to find you if it's not_ _.”_  

There was a burst of hard, chesty laughter that faded into the distance and then Diana was walking back into the sunlight, heading east down West 59th.

“She’s clear,” Peter said. And then agents descended on the area, moving out into the tableaux abruptly like figures from a child’s pop-up book. Neal and Peter reached the scene just as Jones and a couple of agents Neal didn’t recognize slammed Dominik to the ground. Passers-by stopped to gawk and take pictures on their cell phones, crowding around excitedly. Someone wondered loudly if they were filming _Law and Order_.

For a moment Neal couldn’t quite catch his breath, his heart fluttering wildly like a bird in a cage. The swarm of agents and onlookers was such that he couldn’t see Dominik’s face properly until he was dragged to his feet, his rights still being read, and marched towards a waiting bureau car. He looked small and inconsequential in the fracas and for a disquieting second Neal thought they might have the wrong guy. But then their eyes met and he knew. A surge of defiance pulsed in his veins and Neal waved at him, giving a nonchalant shrug as if to say:  _Hey, what are you gonna do_?

Dominik's smile was crass. “I suppose I should’ve broken the other as well, no?”

Peter put a hand on Neal’s shoulder as he came up beside him. “Oh, he would’ve just used his toes,” he said, mirroring Neal’s flippant stance.

Jones shoved Dominik into the back of the car before he could respond, and then they were gone, disappearing into the thronging, overheated traffic.

  

*

 

There was something strange about having a barbecue in October, but somehow Peter’s suggestion had made perfect sense. The earthy smell of burning charcoal mixed with the bitter edge of the evening air and in the purple, fading light, the Burke’s backyard took on a wonderfully surreal atmosphere, like two opposing seasons colliding. Elizabeth lit candles, and a string of fairy lights that had been draped over the laburnum, forgotten since last Christmas, sparkled softly.

Domink had rolled on the gang without much persuasion, unsurprising considering the situation he was in, and the NSB was organizing a series of raids later that night. They might have been too late to stop the shipment of weapons being moved, but it was a big win for the bureau and the agents crowded into the small space were still high off the excitement.

Neal was exhausted, but the adrenaline and elation were carrying him through. It felt good to be back in the heart of it all, to present an image of poise and control. He was sat in a corner with Diana, Christie and a couple of the Harvard Crew, listening to them laugh riotously about something that had happened one Super Bowl Sunday during Christie’s rotation in Emergency. His arm was propped up on a couch cushion Elizabeth had brought out from the living room and he had been allowed a very small glass of wine before being firmly cut off by Peter. Gradually, Neal could feel himself relaxing, the tension seeping out of his muscles. Across the terrace, Peter and Elizabeth stood close together; he reached out and brushed a thumb over her cheek, saying something that made her blush. Neal smiled and looked away, careful not to intrude.

“So, are you in, Neal?” Christie was asking him. “A night out at _Simone’s_ , when you’re up to it. We can get drunk on whisky and stir up some trouble.”

Neal laughed, suspecting that Christie was already a little drunk. “I don’t think I need whisky to get into trouble, but I’m game."

He stood up and excused himself to refill his coffee, but as he did so he caught sight of movement in the little cut that ran behind the terrace. The top of Mozzie’s head came into view a moment later, then his bespectacled eyes, as he peered over the fence and beckoned frantically at Neal. Sending out a quiet plea for strength, Neal snagged a glass of red wine and snuck out of the gate.

“Stealthy, Moz.”

“Needs must,” Mozzie said, taking the glass Neal offered and looking at it skeptically. “I come bearing news.” 

“Well, if you’re willing to be this close to a group of drunk FBI agents then it must be important.” 

Mozzie gestured for Neal to move further away from the wall to ensure they wouldn't be overheard and lowered his voice. “I got hold of my contact in the Corrections Department.  It can be arranged for there to be a small paperwork mix up, have our friend Dominik 'accidentally' sent over to Rikers if you so wish. Not long enough for any irreparable harm to come to him, but - ” Mozzie waved his hand, a sharp, abortive motion, “ - long enough.”

Neal sucked in a breath. “Awful lot of Russian mob at Rikers,” he said, his tone still casual even though his heart was thudding. “How much would that cost?”

“Pocket change,” Mozzie snorted. “The guy’s an idiot.” He eyed Neal out of the side of his glasses and swirled the wine. “You’ve got justice, the question now is do you want revenge?”

Neal’s throat was dry. The last of the light had gone, replaced only by the sulfur of the streetlights and the ever-present curving glow of the city beyond them. A screen door slammed somewhere nearby, followed by the rattle of a trash can and a muffled curse. The desire for revenge was not unfamiliar and maybe a few years ago, in a similar situation, he'd have said yes and called it justice all the same. But when he thought about it now he just felt numb, completely devoid of anything that would sway him one way or the other. Experience told him that there was no simple way for a wrong like this to be righted, to flick a switch and suddenly find everything back as it should be.

There was a click and the back gate swung open as Jones emerged, a cigarette hanging between his lips. Mozzie downed his wine in one theatrical gulp and, thrusting the empty glass into Neal’s hand, bid a hasty retreat.

“Is it just me or does he get weirder the longer you know him?” Jones asked, watching Mozzie disappear down the alleyway and out onto the street before sparking his lighter. He ducked his head, features sharp in the glow of the flame.

“It’s not just you,” Neal laughed, tapping him on the arm as he made his way back into the yard. 

Peter looked up as Neal entered, visibly relaxing as he caught sight of him. He rested a warm hand on the back of Neal’s neck when he reached him, pulling him gently into the fold of the group. There was something in his expression that Neal couldn’t read, a flicker in his eyes that moved between abstraction and affection. Elizabeth was talking about art – Jacob Lawrence, Neal guessed, trying to pick up the thread of conversation - but all he could think about was Peter’s hand, dropped to his shoulder now, casual but still there, unwavering.

Maybe it was enough to feel better, he thought. The rest could come later.

 

 

 

 


End file.
